


The Unfortunate Adventures of Ghostbur

by theplanetmarz



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: ;), Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cold, Gen, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, we die like lunch club
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:26:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27909709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplanetmarz/pseuds/theplanetmarz
Summary: Wilbur Soot knows three things:1. His name2. His chest hurts3. It’s coldSomehow, someway, he's back. He's not alive, per-say, but he's back. Wilbur-rather, Ghostbur, finds himself lost and confused in an all-to familiar world.
Relationships: cringe - Relationship, dont ship real people - Relationship
Comments: 9
Kudos: 63





	1. It's Just A Burning Memory

Wilbur Soot knows three things: 

  1. His name
  2. His chest hurts
  3. It’s cold



The woodland around him is desperately foreign; a fleecy white mess of stranger trees and shrubbery. It feels as though something lurks deep within the trees, concealed by the layers of unforgiving blizzard. 

Cupping his hands, he lifts them to his mouth to breathe new warmth back into his cold extremities. His breath is just as freezing as the world around him. 

With a huff, Wilbur adjusts his woolen, carmine shaded scarf over his mouth, hoping to keep some semblance of heat inside himself, before trekking off into the deep snow. He hasn’t a clue where he’s off to, just the need, an urge, to move forwards. 

The crackle of patted snow mutters under his toes, something that he feels he has not heard in a while, accompanied by the far-off giggle of a child.

The voice, he recognizes it, though, he cannot place a name nor face. 

With the newfound promise of humanity somewhere in the distance, Wilbur quickens his pace down the cut-out path before him. 

He can feel his pocketed hands shuddering, from the cold or anticipation, he doesn’t know. 

It’s lonely here, in the boscage. He hasn't been here long, at least, he doesn’t think so. 

He can’t quite remember. 

The muttering is undeniably closer now, and Wilbur can just barely see a mass in the far-away. 

Lowering his scarf, he speaks out, “ _Hello?”_

A thunderous, spindly creak ruptures through the air. 

He can see it now, a massive door, slowly closing. The voices chatter from just inside the glow behind the oaken gates. 

_He has to make it through._

Something pulls him, deep inside his gut, his walk breaking out into a run, then a sprint. 

_Are the doors shutting faster?_

Every foot pound hurts more, cold shattering through his bones, threatening to break him. 

Wilbur throws an arm out in front of him, 

_“Wait! Please!”_

As if his cries will be enough to stop the movement of the doors. A heat finally strikes him, fresh tears patter down from his eyes. The salty droplets freeze on his face, becoming tiny paths of ice. 

_Why is he crying?_

He doesn’t stop to ponder, he’s close. 

He can make out the words the voices exchange: 

_“As long as this symbol of what we have-”_

_“You betrayed us…”_

_“You’re the president!”_

_“Let’s go to the bench”_

Jumbled cuts of passing conversation, it seems. The voices, Wilbur recognizes them, somehow, he’s heard them before. 

The cold is deepening inside him, despite getting closer to the glowing warmth of whatever's beyond the door. 

It's nothing but a crack now, a splinter of light seeping into the dimly lit outside. 

Wilbur's body slams against the timber, immediately crumbling to the ground with a violent force. 

He can't bring words out of his throat, only a subdued angry sob. He was almost there....but now he's alone. 

Pain scrapes through Wilbur's arms as he drags his nails down the door, a desperate scratching attempt at getting inside.

He knows it won't work, but continues to rip at the splintering wood anyways. 

"A shame, really." 

A weeping mess, Wilbur flinches sideways at the sudden presence beside him. 

Looking up from his feeble kneeling state, he meets the yellow slitted eyes of a ram horned man. The first thing, other than his beading eyes and horns, is the seemingly eternal drip of fluid that leaks from the corner of his bottom lip. 

"So you didn't make it out either, eh?"

"I'm sorry," Wilbur struggles to speak at first, finding his voice to be stuck in a permanent rasp, "Do I know you?" 

The ram-man smirks, though it's traced with sorrow, looking from Wilbur, to the door, and back again. He responds with nothing but an upturned hum.

The stranger, who's sky blue sweater bears a disturbing similarity to Wilbur's own yellow one, spins on his heel, wandering away. 

“W-wait” Wilbur hastily wipes his frozen tears with his arm, shattering them on his face, shakily rising to his legs, "I-I don't wanna be alone."

He turns, finding that he’s alone again. 

A pang of dread wells in his gut, before swiftly shivering up through his veins, and into his head. 

Fresh snivels leak from his forsaken face; he disintegrates to his knees once more. 

But, as he crumbles to the snowy floor, he does not stop.

The pang transforms into paroxysm, while Wilbur reaches his arms out in front of him. 

His blubbering makes it so he cannot see past the forceful water whipping into his eyeballs, his only hope for sense, the light and sound around him. It’s still as silent as before, besides the whooshing of air past his ears. 

If he really had the conviction to, he would be screaming. 

The space around him brightens, a harsh wave of heat bashing into him with enough force to throw him backwards. His scarf flies off, lashing off somewhere high above him, followed by his puffy winter jacket. 

_Oh god, it’s getting cold again…_

Wilbur is left with nothing but his torn yellow sweater, and a pair of dirty black jeans. 

Despite how quickly he seems to be descending, when Wilbur feels something brush his knees, it's gentle. His fingers meet the same fate, softly meeting with a lush poking. 

He’s kneeling in the grass, a lush comfort to contrast his previous peril. 

_Why was he so scared again?_

_Why...why is his face wet?_

Wilbur ascends, wiping the mystery water from his eyes. 

A brisk gale ruffles through his mousy brown locks, shuffling them down over his eyes; giggling, he brushes them aside to gaze at his newfound world. 

A yawning crater exists at the tip of his toes, a gracious stilted village suspended above.

The expanse causes whispers to dance around Wilbur’s ears, 

_‘My L’Manberg, my L’Manberg….’_ it seems to tease. 

“Wilbur?” 

The brunet twists around to meet a pair of wide cerulean eyes. 

“T-Tubbo?” 

_Tubbo_. 

He remembers Tubbo. The cheerful little builder; a perfect reflection of Wilbur himself as a child. 

_Childhood_ , he barely remembers that, even as a concept. 

_What was his childhood like?_

“You’re-you’re-.” the boy’s voice shakes while he backs himself away from Wilbur. 

“Tubbo, what’s going on?”

Tubbo clasps his hands together, gulping, “You-Phil….” The boy’s voice trails off mid sentence. 

His face is pale, horrified, it could almost match the grey shade of Wilbur’s skin, if there wasn’t a visible lifeblood flowing through him still. “How...Why are you back?” 

Why _is_ he here? 

Wilbur looks from Tubbo to the village, and back again, then to his limpid fingers. 

“I-” he cuts himself off, unsure of what to really say. He doesn’t know why he’s back. Was he ever gone? He didn’t choose this, he doesn’t even know where he was _before_ this. 

Or _what_ he was. 

“I don’t know. “ 

The two stare at each other. The hush around them is ear-splitting. 

“How long have I been gone for? I used to live here, right?” 

Tubbo nods, “It’s been about three days.” 

Wilbur nods, trying to figure out how his personal passage of time had worked. It barely felt like a second since he’d felt the soft energy of L’Manberg, but to be fair, his mind was a pulpy blur. 

“What happened here? I remember this place being...different. Where are the walls, the van?” 

Tubbo sighs, a sorrowful grin crawling across his face, “You really don’t remember anything, do you?” 

Wilbur shakes his head. 

The teenager reaches an arm out to pat Wilbur’s shoulder, but his fingers phase through. A horrible, freezing sting shoots through both of their bodies, sending them stumbling backwards in equal shock. 

The silence befalls them again. 

“I’m so sorry Wilbur.” 

“What do you mean?” 

_“Wilbur,”_ Tubbo’s voice is strained, an apologetic whisper, similar to Wilbur’s new voice himself, “ _You’re dead.”_

The shivering man stares down to his hands instinctively. 

Oh, they’re translucent. 

He’s a ghost it seems. 

He’s dead. 

_He’s dead._

A heat emerges in Wilbur’s face, beneath his eyes, as ghostly tears well.

  
It’s the only warmth he’s felt in a long, _long_ time.


	2. Mournful Camaraderie

The mug is set down with a soft _bonk_ against the old spruce table. Phil glances from the steaming tea, to his boy, cuddled up in an armchair, inches from the crackling fire. 

“Three days, huh?” Phil settles in a matching red armchair across from Wilbur. He doesn’t break his gaze from the fire. 

Wilbur remains silent for a moment, before looking to the mug on the table, then to his father, and back to the fire. He shrugs, “I guess so.” 

“Where were you? I mean, you must’ve been somewhere.” Phil sips his tea, carefully watching Wilbur, trying to gauge some sort of reaction. The man’s lips draw tighter, and he blinks. 

“I don’t...remember.” his voice is hushed, shy, embarrassed. 

Phil nods, taking another drink. 

Wilbur is huddled in on himself, a desperate hug. His bottom lip trembles, before he bites it lightly, settling it’s frantic quiver. Phil never thought he’d see Wilbur in that sweater again; a naïve butterscotch that shone against his face. It was more of a buttercup shade now, the ghostly essence of Wilbur’s new form seeping into the fibers. 

He tries not to stare at the hole ripped in the front, or at the dark marks beneath it. 

“Phil?” the blond hums in acknowledgement, “Everything’s so blurry and I’m….I’m scared...” 

“Wilbur-”

“Please don’t- don’t call me that. I don’t think people like Wilbur-Alivebur.”

“What makes you think that?” 

Wilbur shuffles in his seat, rubbing his shoulders up and down, “Tubbo was scared when he first saw me. I know I’m dead, it’s gonna be a shock to see anyone who you thought was dead come back, but he...he acted differently. And when he took me here, people stared. That fox, he looked horrified. And the guy in green...I can’t even describe how he looked, but it wasn’t happy, or mad...just… shocked to some kind of angry degree, I dunno.” 

“Well,” Phil stands, shuffling to the table, retrieving the now cooling mug of tea, “Alivebur was a complicated guy. He was a good person, though, at least in his earlier life; at least to me.” 

“What was he to you?” 

“You will always be my son.” 

Wilbur’s expression softens, slowly turning to a smile. Phil offers the mug forwards.

Wilbur reaches out for it, but it falls straight through his hand. 

“Ah. I-I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” the winged man chuckles, ignoring the burning tea splashed onto his feet and calves, walking through the dark house to find some towels. He returns quickly, to find Wilbur crouched over, poking at the tea on the carpet, “What’re you up to buddy?” 

“I can’t feel it.” 

“Well, I think that’s a good thing,” Phil kneels, dabbing at the soaked rug carefully, “It’s very hot.” 

“Ghostbur.” Wilbur says bluntly. 

“What?” Phil looks up, meeting Wilbur’s beady gaze. 

“I want to be called Ghostbur. I’m not like Alivebur, I don’t think I want to be like him.” 

Phil nods, continuing to scrub at the spill, “So, Ghostbur, how about you go get ready for bed?” 

Wilbur-Ghostbur, stands up, and wanders away from the spill. 

Phil sighs to himself. 

As much as he was happy his boy was back, he still felt a prick of sadness. Ghostbur deserved rest, he deserved better than to be brought back into this world. A world he destroyed; a world no longer meant for him. 

And what would he think when he learns just how he died? How will he react to finding out he was the terror that brought this country to its knees, that he dragged both of his brothers down into his mess with him. That he forced children into war. 

This form he had now, it couldn’t be worse. Alive, Wilbur was prideful of his achievements, memories, he held onto them like rope over a cliff. 

And now he was tormented by never knowing what he’d done wrong; a wandering amnesiac. 

Phil picks up the mug, luckily still in one piece. 

He sets it back onto the long, lonely dinner table, on which they hadn’t had a family dinner in years. 

Tommy had been...what was it? Twelve? When they were all together last.

Five years. It’d really be five years. 

Too much had changed. Tommy wasn’t a vice president last time, now a child with too much power in his hands. Techno was a criminal, but he wasn’t barred from his family’s nation. And Wilbur wasn’t a father, Wilbur wasn’t….

Phil sniffs in sharply, and ascends the stairs. 

He hears Ghostbur humming down the hall. 

  
  


* * *

“Good morning!” Ghostbur chirps, as Phil trudges into the kitchen. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, to see Ghostbur floating about the kitchen, cooking excitedly. 

“Hey, look at you.” Phil smiles, sitting down at the little round table. Ghostbur sets down a mug of tea, “It turns out I can’t sleep anymore, so I practiced holding things. Also, no need to make me tea anymore, I can’t eat or drink either.” 

Phil chuckles, blowing on his tea, “How come you’re doing all this then?”

“I’m making you breakfast of course!” The ghost sets a plate down on the table, scraping scrambled eggs onto it, before fetching a couple of slices of toast. He sits across from Phil, and watches. 

Phil eats in silence, as Ghostbur examines his every move.

There’s a knock at the door, the young man floats over to answer. 

A tall blond boy in a red and white shirt stood there, mouth gaping. “Hello!”

“Wil-Wilbur?” he stammers, before quickly unsheathing his diamond sword from the scabbard on his back, “What the hell are you doing here?!” 

He stands defensively, ready to slash at the being before him. 

“Tommy! Tommy calm down!” Phil comes running, creating a barrier between the two, “This is Ghostbur.” 

“That’s Wilbur! He blew up L’Ma-” 

Phil shoves Tommy out of the doorway, slamming the door behind them.

“Tommy,” his tone is hushed, frustrated but patient, “Wilbur doesn’t remember anything.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know why or how, but your brother’s a ghost, and he doesn’t remember anything bad he did. He doesn’t know how he died, and he barely remembers L’Manberg as it is, okay?” 

Tommy backs away, stepping down the stairs, returning his sword to its case. 

“Does he remember me?” 

“He...he hasn’t really mentioned you yet.” 

“Oh,” Tommy smiles, tears welling up, eye bags turning red, “Okay.” 

“Tommy-” 

“No, it’s fine, it’s-maybe I’m just not a good memory.” Tommy nods, turns around, and runs off. 

Phil stares at the boy, sprinting across the boardwalk, rubbing his face with his arm. He trips a little, bumping into barrels and a very confused Quackity. 

He tilts his head, staring up at the sky. 

It’s a clear day, cerulean sky and cotton clouds. A warm breeze sweeps past him, swishing his hair along his upper back. 

Tommy was much too emotional. He’d never admit it, though, but passion drove every factor of his waking life. 

He’d started and finished wars with his mistakes and angers, gotten his brother’s written off as criminals because of his insolence. 

He’d died once due to his self righteousness. 

“Can I come out now?” a tiny whisper interrupts Phil’s thought. Ghostbur’s head sticks through the door. 

He stares up at his father with child-like eyes. 

Phil sighs, a pained smile coming across his face, “Why don’t we go finish breakfast?” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading!! excited for more ;] i've recently come up with some very fun and cool ideas to throw at this story, so stay tuned.  
> -  
> comments > kudos! (though i appreciate both equally :D )

**Author's Note:**

> first chapter babey!!!! i've got tons of wips but some kind of urge came over me to publish and put this one out first. updates will likely be very slow  
> \--  
> Kudos and Comments Greatly Appreciated!! i run off comments lol


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